Mistakes We Knew We Were Making
by imogenedisease
Summary: Draco may or may not be a spy. Harry may or may not want him to be. Slash


_I'll pretend that I want you  
For what is on the inside  
But when I get inside,  
I'll just want to get out_**  
**

When he's beneath me, flushed and panting, I feel like dying. Accustomed to his cool glances and smirk, I hate seeing him become human. I hate seeing something flash in his eyes.

He believes that he is a talented actor, playing the part of the doting and playful lover. When he leaves for the next meeting, it is a breath of fresh air. He comes back, crucio'd for not knowing enough, and I allow myself a smile.

How he can possibly be so naive as to believe I am ignorant to his activities, I don't know. It doesn't matter. I have what I want from him.

_I'm your first and last deposit  
Through sickness and in hell_

Sometimes I think he will defect, if Voldemort is losing. He has put himself in the most advantageous spot, grovelling son of the Dark Lord's right hand man, submissive lover to the Boy Who Lived.

If he was not in a large amount of danger every minute of every day, I would agree. He will win this war. He will slink to the right side of whoever claims victory.

If he does not die first.**  
**

_I'll never promise you a garden  
You'll just water me down_

He's comfortable in his place, oh so willing to be on his knees. Kissing a robe or stroking a cock, it doesn't matter to him. It's just a means to an end. So I never give his intentions a second thought. He doesn't matter to me.

When he tells me he loves me, I grin and return the sentiment. You'll never see a better actor than me. **  
**

_I can't believe that you are for real  
But I don't care as long as you're mine_

And then there are the moments, when he's curled close, breathing even, and I do love him. I love the blond hair falling across his eyes, and the innocence upon his sleeping brow. I love that he would abandon me if I were dying. I love that, because he's one of the only ones. I can trust that.

I can trust him to not be trusted. And I like that. 

_When I said we  
you know I meant me _

Sometimes, when I'm sated, he'll tell me what he believes I want to hear. He'll construct happily ever afters, with no war, no obligations. He wants a house in the country, he says, he wants cats, because cats are calm and so smart.

I think cats are eerie, but I don't say a thing. I know that I won't be living in that house. **  
**

_When I said sweet  
I meant dirty _**  
**

Sometimes when he tells me those stories, I think he means them. His eyes soften for that minute in time, muted silver in candlelight. And then I doubt myself, doubt every belief I hold. And that terrifies me.

On those nights, I fuck him again, just to prove he's worth nothing more. He moans as softly as ever, pants in the exact same way, but there's something different about those nights. Those nightsit hurts not to be in him, not to hold him in my arms. I hate those nights. **  
**

_I'm unsafe  
_

Every night I'm with him, I wait for his hand to move towards his wand, wait for a darkening in his eyes to warn me of danger. But he's sweet, sickly sweet, and merely becomes what he believes I want him to be.

Sometimes he's right. I do want him on his knees. But mostly I want him to act like I remember him to be, ruthless and cruel. Nursing old wounds and older rivalries, I await my destruction at his hands. But it never comes. They're winning, but it never comes.

_I won't repent and so  
I memorize the words to the porno movies  
It's the only thing I want to believe_

When he's sweet, when he's perfectly perfect, situated in my arms, I can't stand it. I feel guilty for doubting him, and then guilty for not. I hate him for making me feel guilty, and I hate myself for hating him.

And then we fuck again. _  
_

_I memorize the words to the porno movies  
This is a new religion to me_

It's never really been more than that. I fuck him, he moans and writhes like the perfect little whore. I wake up and hate myself in the morning, and he's never there to comfort me. I wake up alone. And this happens every single night that I'm home. He always comes at 11. I assume he comes when I'm not there, but I don't know. I don't care.

Sometimes I stay up all night with him, fucking and talking and fucking again. Sometimes I fall asleep in his arms immediately, not caring whether I die or not. Sometimes he cries himself to sleep beside me, silent, shoulders shaking. I don't know whether this is an act.

With all my heart, I hope it is. 

I'm a VCR funeral of  
Dead-memory waste and  
My smile is a chainlink fence  
that I have put up

Sometimes I do all the talking. He listens silently, hand running absently through my hair, across my skin. He listens with a whisper of a smile upon his face, and I paste one on in return. I tell him about a world without wizards, without muggles, without anything but us.

I tell him that we would happy in this world. Adam and Eve, but he never understands what I mean when I say that. So I stop talking, and we fuck. We always fuck.

_I love the enemy, my love is the enemy  
_

Sometimes, when he's sleeping, I just watch him for hours and hours. I regulate my breathing to match the beat ofhis heart, and I'm sure that if he dies, I will die as well. Because in those sleepy, silent moments, I love him with all my ragged heart.

He's more than a Death Eater I need to keep my eyes on. He's a beautiful, smart young man who may really love me. And even if he doesn't, sometimes I love him. Sometimes I don't care what side he's on, as long as I can have him for those nights. Even if it ends. Even _when _it ends.

_They say they don't want fame  
But they get famous  
When we fuck_

Sometimes I fuck others. Days I'm gone, days he doesn't see me. Days I'm free. It's only nights that I fall into his arms. Those other people fawn over me, preparing to ignore the tragedies around them for a chance to fuck the Boy Who Lived.

He never does that. He never mentions it, not anymore. He says my name softly. But he never says Potter anymore. To him, I am Harry, I am nothing more. And that's what I need. 

I never believed the devil was real  
But god couldn't make someone filthy as you

The night he raises his wand, I am prepared. He's on the floor in instants, bound. He looks up with beseeching eyes and finishes the spell softly, without his wand.

_Accio shirt._

A moment later, he's encompassed in green light, the words coming out of my mouth without a thought. A second too late I realise my mistake. A second too late, I fall to my knees beside him. Gasping, sobbing, I stand and go to grab his shirt, throw it at his motionless body.

I never did know his intentions, but I still think they were self-serving. I still think he would have killed me, had he a chance at winning the war by doing so. But it doesn't matter now, because those moments inside him meant everything.

Voldemort steadily gains support, soI figure that I would have lost him anyway. But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter.


End file.
